


Culpability

by archipelago



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Post-Reichenbach, Sally deals with the truth of what she's done, no Anderson so that's nice at least
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-19
Updated: 2013-02-19
Packaged: 2017-11-29 20:09:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 817
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/690950
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/archipelago/pseuds/archipelago
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“He was real, wasn’t he?” she asks.</p><p>“Which one?  Sherlock or—“ he hesitates, wondering which name to choose, “or Moriarty.”</p><p> </p><p>Sally finally admits to herself that she was wrong.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Culpability

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I do not own anything related to Sherlock.

“Forensics came back on that bullet.”

Lestrade looks up from his desk. He doesn’t need to ask which bullet. “And?”

Sally swallows thickly. “Suicide, definitely. The trajectory—it couldn’t have been achieved any other way. Brook shot himself.”

A sea of different emotions wash over Greg, and it is impossible for him to distinguish which is the strongest. Disappointment, relief, grief, fear, anger, confusion? They are all variations on a theme. It doesn’t exonerate the man, doesn’t explain his final actions, and yet... 

Sherlock Holmes did not put a bullet in a man’s head before he threw himself off a building. Of that, at least, he was innocent.

He sighs. “Want to get a pint?”

“God, yes.”

\--

They go to the St. James station and take the tube to Westminster; Sally moved out there six months ago. The ride is silent, as is the walk to her local. Once they’re inside and have their first round, they settle into a corner table. It's a slow night; the only people there besides them are a crowd of students drunkenly throwing darts.

“So,” Lestrade says, “suicide.”

“Yep.”

He takes a long gulp of his bitter. “I don’t know how to feel.”

“Me neither,” Sally replies. She runs a finger around the lip of the glass. “Maybe it was like those serial suicides. You know, the ones with Jefferson Hope? He had a hand in those. Maybe he forced Brook to…”

“Sally, he solved 27 cold cases during the time he worked with us. More than half of those were committed before he was born, and the other half—“

“I’m not saying he wasn’t smart, just that—“

Lestrade overpowers her. “And the other half of them were all done before he was nine years old.”

Sally pushes away her beer. “I think I need something stronger.”

“They called me in for some of the reviews of his cases. God, it’s such a mess—all the paperwork before John came along is half done at best. It’s going to take months to sort it.” He drums his fingers on the table. “But—you know, they still haven’t found any evidence that he…”

“I know.” Sally glares at the wall, refusing to meet his eyes. “If they clear him, do you think they’ll make you DI again?”

The demotion had been painful and embarrassing. The fact that his wife had walked out on him a week after he got the news had not made things any easier. That had probably been for the best, though, as she’d still been seeing that teacher from his son’s school behind his back.

It really hadn’t been Lestrade’s year.

He shrugs. “Don’t know. I like to think…honestly, though, who can say? There's no point in guessing. Figure it’s best not to get my hopes up.”

Running a hand down her face, Sally nods. “I just…”

Her voice trails. Lestrade leans across the table and pats her shoulder awkwardly. “It’s alright. You were just doing your job.”

“It’s not alright!” Sally slams a hand down on the table. “All the evidence was right there in front of me! It was a perfectly reasonable conclusion to draw! I followed a lead and came up with a theory that fit, and then he—he…”

“Sally…”

She shakes her head and ignores his pleading town. “I hated him. Really, I did. But then last week, I was in Tesco and I saw John Watson, and he just looked terrible. He’s lost weight, and he’s limping, and I remembered all those stupid cold cases that Sherlock solved—solved, without a doubt solved—and suddenly I thought, ‘I was wrong, wasn’t I?’”

The only sound is the group of drunken uni students laughing.

“Did John see you?”

“No.” Sally grabs her discarded pint and takes a long gulp. “I hid in the next aisle so that I could avoid him.”

Lestrade passes a hand through his hair. “Probably for the best.”

She huffs a laugh into her glass. “I’m fairly certain he would have forgotten his limp long enough to attack me with his cane.”

The pair chuckle, but the moment is short-lived. Sally drains half her pint in a few short gulps and stares at the glass when she puts it back on the table. One of the dart players in the corner hits a bulls eye and a cheer goes across the pub.

“He was real, wasn’t he?” she asks.

“Which one? Sherlock or—“ he hesitates, wondering which name to choose, “or Moriarty.”

“Either. Both.”

Lestrade finishes up his first and stands. “I think they both were,” he tells her. When she doesn’t respond, he adds, “I’ll get this round.”

“I’m done, actually.”

Her beer is still half-full. He quirks a brow at her, and she sighs. When she meets his eyes, Sally looks near tears. Quietly, she asks, “Lestrade, tell me the truth. Did I kill Sherlock Holmes?”

**Author's Note:**

> Just a little something I wrote on a whim. Am hoping they'll humanize Sally and her decisions in the upcoming season...........whenever THAT happens, sigh.


End file.
